


Plan C

by wolfy_writing



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-26 16:14:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13239399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfy_writing/pseuds/wolfy_writing
Summary: On days Peter's life stopped being in Awesome Space Adventure mode and started getting too hard, he had a plan.Well, three plans.Set after the second film





	Plan C

Peter tried to keep his life in Awesome Space Adventure mode as much as possible. But sometimes things went wrong. Sometimes there were bad days, and ugly things that threw him for a loop.

When that happened, he had a plan. Well, three plans.

Plan A: Laugh It Off. He’d gotten that one from Yondu, actually.

(“What do you think boy?” Yondu asked, blood running down his face, “Am I still the prettiest one in the crew?”

Peter, age ten, had just had his first crash landing and on the edge of panic. “They shot us down!”

“Picked that up, did you? What was your first clue, when the planet came rushing up at us?”

Peter checked the scanner. “They’re landing! They’re coming for us! What do we do?”

“Throw your dirty socks at them. I don’t think you changed those things since I first picked you up. The stink has to be strong enough to take down an army by now.”

Yondu made joke after terrible joke until Peter finally laughed. By then, he’d calmed down and was ready to listen to Yondu’s plan, which was how two Nova Corps members, including a full Denarian, were taken down by a little Terran kid hiding under the floor panel with a stun gun. And Peter had gone from nearly peeing himself in fear to nearly peeing himself with laughter.

…remembering that _hurt_ now.)

But it had been a week since Yondu died, and Peter hadn’t found anything funny. The rest of the crew was giving him odd looks. Rocket had made a string of increasingly gross jokes, then stomped off muttering about how nobody on this ship had a sense of humor anymore.

So Peter had tried Plan B: Music. He’d picked that up from his mom.

(“But he always told the truth, lord, he was an honest man. And Brandy did her best to understand.”

He heard the music before he opened the front door, and dashed into the living room expecting to see his mom singing along to the music, ready to dance.

Mom’s Dance Party was the _best_ game.

Instead, Mom was sitting on the couch, quietly, tears running down her face.

Peter, who was seven, and already wanting to protect his mom, had stopped. “Mom?”

She looked up, smiled, and wiped the tears from her face. “It’s okay, Peter. I was just a bit sad.” She stood and turned off the record. “Everyone gets sad sometimes. I like to have music. It’s like they put it into words for you. Then you can listen, have a good cry, and it’s over in a few minutes.” She picked up a different record, and “Come and Get Your Love” started up.

“Dance with me?” She held out her hand.

He took her hands and they danced.

A week later Peter got his own Walkman and a special mixtape to keep him company when his mom had hospital visits. When he got too scared or sad, he’d wait until Grandpa fell asleep, listen to “O-o-h Child”, and cry quietly until he felt better. When he’d been kidnapped by the Ravagers, he’d learned to hide in spare storage cupboards where no one would laugh at the stupid Terran baby crying for his mommy.

… _that_ memory burned like acid. And he was pretty sure he’d never be able to enjoy “Brandy (You’re a Fine Girl)” again.)

But he’d shut the door to his bunk and picked though the best songs on the Zune, and it wasn’t enough. It helped, but there was just too much. Too many things running through his head, in too many different directions at once.

And if he spent any more time shut up in his room with the door locked, he was pretty sure Gamora was going to break it down.

It was time for Plan C, For Very Bad Days Only - land on a nearby planet, get stupid drunk, and find a girl to distract him.

(Kraglin had found Peter not far from the Kree ship. “Where have you been, Quill? Cap’n told me to look after you. That means you stay where I can see you and don’t run off all night long. Especially the night after a Kree slave ship pulls up.” He took a second look at Peter, who was shaking. “Oh no, tell me you didn’t…”

Peteer, who was seventeen, and had thought he could handle everything, felt his voice crack. “It wasn’t on purpose! You told me to scout the crews! I didn’t even drink or nothing, just sat and listened, and this Kree…he hit me with a stunner when I wasn’t looking, and…”

Kraglin had gone dead white. “You hurt? They hurt you?”

Peter shook his head. “I’m okay.” They hadn’t really hurt him. A few zaps and bruises. Nothing compared to what they did to the others.

There’d been this one girl, violet-skinned and pretty. They’d picked her out at random and taken her to pieces. She’d screamed for hours. Peter could still hear it in his head.

“I know, Quill, I know. Listen, we’re going to get out of here, and then I’m going to get you a stiff drink. You need it.”

Peter had let himself be led off, and soon they were in a bar half a planet away, where there was some sweet blue drink that made the shaking stop.

Soon there was a pretty Xandarian girl. She started out talking to Kraglin, but after Kraglin started in on Peter’s Heroic Escape - which sounded so much more impressive than “Being the only one on the ship with a hidden Ravager-model electronic skeleton key in his boots” - she shifted her attention.

When Peter got drunk enough, he could put things into words. And she made her sympathetic face. And as he talked, it felt less like a jumble of blood and screaming rattling around in his head, and more like a story. The story of Peter Quill, Star-Lord, and his daring escape from the Kree slave ship. And even if he didn’t quite believe himself as the hero, at least the story version had an ending.

And then she’d taken him back to her room and he’d been able to stop thinking about it completely for a little while.

He woke up the next morning with a hangover splitting his skull and the awkward realization that he’d never learned the girl’s name. And even with the headache and the sick stomach and the worry and embarrassment about how to talk to the girl the morning after, he felt so much better than he had the night before..)

Plan C had only come up a couple of times since then. It was a worst-case scenario, at least so far. (Peter had never come up with a Plan D. He hoped he wouldn’t have to, because he had no idea what to do if Plan C didn’t work.) It didn’t fix everything, but it was enough of a reset that he could shake off the worst of it and keep going.

He’d met, fought, and killed his evil father who’d murdered his mother and all of the half-brothers and half-sisters he’d never known he had, and then tried to use him as a human battery to devour all other life. And then he’d watched Yondu die saving him. It was definitely a day for Plan C.

—

“The Humie’s out of his room?” Rocket asked. “I thought you’d died in there and the smell was buried under the stink of your dirty laundry. Wait, we’re landing?”

“Yep,” said Peter.

“Why? What’s down there?”

“Booze.”

Rocket grinned. “Finally, you do something that isn’t completely stupid.”

Gamora stepped in to the cockpit. “Peter, you’re out of your room.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m glad to see that.”

Peter felt like he was stuck in that old TV episode about the guy who wished on a monkey’s paw and had everything he wished for backfire horribly. He’d spent all this time wishing Gamora would give him a sign she cared about him, but now that it happened, he felt too crappy to enjoy it.

“Where are we going?” asked Gamora.

“Drinking,” said Rocket. “Don’t wait up.”

“You’re taking him to get drunk?”

“Don’t blame me, it was the humie’s idea.”

“Peter?”

“Yep,” he said.

“You’re going to get drunk with Rocket?”

“I said I was going to get drunk. He invited himself along.” He didn’t look at Gamora. “Look, I know this isn’t the smartest idea, but it’s been a hell of a week, and right now I want to take my ship to somewhere where I can stupid drunk and stop thinking about it for a little while.”

There was a pause, and Peter braced himself for a lecture or an insult. Then Gamora asked, “Can I come?”

“What?”

“Can I come with you? I think it would be good for you to have company.”

“I’ve got Rocket.”

“Hold on, who said we were going to drink together?” Rocket asked. “Like I want your miserable face cramping my style.”

“Please, Peter,” said Gamora, a hand on his shoulder.

Gamora was asking to spend time with Peter. And she’d said please. The part of Peter’s brain that wasn’t relentlessly picking over everything in the past week was telling him he’d regret it if he passed up this chance.

“Sure. Sounds good.”

—

The bar they found after Rocket took off was nicer than some of the ones Peter had been too. It was clean, and staffed mainly by robots. Each table came with its own drinks dispenser, that automatically served up your order and charged it to the bill.

After some fiddling, Peter had it rigged up to serve acceptable shots and charge the whole thing to Ayesha of the Sovereign.

He pulled the first round out of the dispenser. “Here you go.” He then downed his shot and set his empty glass down on the table.

She watched, and copied his movements exactly. “How did I do?” Perfect. Like she was at everything, except dancing and telling jokes. If they combined the best bits of her and Peter, they would have the galaxy’s perfect being.

“You did fine,” he said. “Okay, next round.”

—

“How do you do it?” asked Peter. They were six shots in, and he was definitely feeling it.

“Do what?” Gamora, as usual, looked like nothing rattled her.

“Not be affected,” he said.

“I have an augmented metabolism,” she said. “And resistance to toxins.”

“So you can’t get drunk?” Peter asked. “You really should have mentioned that before going out drinking.”

“I can get drunk,” she said. “It just takes a lot more.”

Peter grinned. “Is that a challenge? Because a lot more can be arranged.”

—

“No,” said Peter, getting a surprised look from Gamora.

“S’not what I meant. I meant…things. You don’t let them affect you. You’re just…” He made a vague gesture.

What he was trying to get at without actually saying it was, _How do you do all this action hero stuff and never have to go cry on your bunk afterward? Are you stronger than me? Tougher? Just plain better?_

He was a little afraid of what the answer might me.

Gamora was still staring at him, looking confused.

“What I mean is, you’ve been though some real nasty shit. Way worse than me.”

Gamora shook her head. “I don’t think you can compare lives like that.”

“Sure you can,” said Peter. “I’ll show you.” He began fiddling with the drinks dispenser, and produced a whole line of shots.

“This is for an evil asshole who thinks he’s your father trying to use you to conquer the galaxy.” He set one down in front of her, and one in front of himself. “This one is for him kidnapping you as a child.” He added shots. “This is for him murdering your mother.” He gave them both a drink. “This is for him murdering your father.” He gave her a shot. “This is for being the last of your kind. This one is for being forced to kill people. This one is for people hunting you down and trying to kill you over stuff Thanos did. And this is for him torturing you.” He leaned back. “See? Your life is at least five drinks worse.”

“You were never tortured?” Gamora asked.

“No,” said Peter.

(He hadn’t been. Not _really_. Yeah, there’d been a few ugly interrogations back when he was with the Ravagers, but nothing he would really _count_ as torture.)

( _Shut up, brain_ , he thought. _One thing at a time._ )

“What did Ego do to you, then?”

“Not torture.” Peter shook his head. “Some kind of…magic mind-whammy.” He tried not to think about it. Whenever he did, he could feel the universe spreading out inside his eyes, and something inside him threatened to slip away.

“I’ve never had anyone put a magic mind-whammy on me,” she said. She pulled another drink from the dispenser, and set it on Peter’s side. Then she got another one. “Raised by criminals who kept threatening to eat you.” She set it in front of Peter.

“Yondu was joking! He told me!"

“When?”

“Last week.”

“And you had nightmares about it when you were a child. You told me.”

Peter pressed his hands to his face. “I have got to stop getting drunk and telling you stuff. It’s not fair unless you get too drunk to remember.”

“Only one of your kind.” She set down another drink.

“Come on, there are millions of Terrans. Billions? Trillions?” He tried to remember what his second grade teacher had said. “Anyway, lots.”

“Half-Terran, half-Celestial?” She gave him a look. “Also, one for not being able to find your home planet. And one for all the half-brothers and half-sisters you never got to know.”

“Crazy murderous sister.” Peter gave her a shot.

“Turned into a living battery.”

Peter stared down at the shots. “Yeah, but you haven’t told me all of the bad stuff that’s happened to you, though. This is just the stuff I found out.”

“Have you told me everything?”

“A lot of it.” He’d told her way more than he told most people, actually. Gamora probably knew at least as much about his life as Kraglin, who’d known him since he was eight.

“I told you, comparing doesn’t work.”

Peter contemplated the shots on the table. “Wow, that is a _lot_ of crappy stuff that has happened in our lives.” He looked up at Gamora. “We should destroy them all by drinking them.”

—

“Screw Ego!” Peter held his glass up for a toast.

Gamora gave Peter a confused look. “Screw?”

“No, not screw as in a screw. Screw as in screw you! Like you hate them. How do you say you hate someone in space?”

“You say, I hate you.”

“And if you want something stronger?”

“I kill them.”

Right. Badass space assassins didn’t need to be good at insults. “Well, we got that covered. This is a Terran thing. Just go with it.”

“Screw Ego!” Gamora clinked glasses and they each downed a shot.

“Screw Thanos!”

“Screw Thanos!”

“Screw being kidnapped!”

“Screw that!”

“See, you got it.” Peter grinned. “Screw being an orphan!”

“Screw that, too!”

“Screw not having a species!”

“Screw that!”

Peter looked at the table. “Screw…we’re nearly out of drinks.

“Screw that!” Gamora downed a shot, then looked at Peter. “Your turn.”

Peter did a shot. “We need Rocket.”

“What?”

“If you get one drink for every shitty thing that happened to you, think how much booze _he’d_ have!”

It wasn’t that funny, not really, but Gamora chuckled, and that started Peter laughing, and he just kept laughing until he fell over sideways.

“What are you doing?” Gamora asked.

“Checking out the view,” said Peter from the floor. “It is awesome!”

Gamora, in the first sign she really was drunk, slid down and lay on the floor next to Peter. “It’s just the ceiling.”

A service robot came over. “Return to verticality or you will be assisted to leave.”

“Return to verticality? Who the hell talks like that?” Peter pulled himself upright. “It’s okay, R2, we’re good.”

“Do you know that robot?” Gamora asked.

“No, it’s just all robots are called R2-D2, unless they’re really whiny, in which case they’re C3PO. It’s an Earth thing. Hang on, Robbie, can you bring us some water?”

“The dispenser should provide water.”

“Okay, what about snacks? Fried things?” “

Fried things?” Gamora asked.

“You gotta have fried things when you drink. Greasy crunchy fried things! Those are the best!”

—

Ten minutes and one live staff member later, Peter was nibbling happily on a basket of crunchy fried…meat, probably?

Gamora took a bite, looking oddly morose. “How do you do that?”

“What, order food?”

“He was nice to you. He sent someone out for food. You made him want to make you happy.”

“We’re good customers. We spent plenty of units, we haven’t started any fights or puked on the floor…”

Gamora shook her head. “You make people like you. They want to make you happy. And when you fail them or cause problems, they are annoyed, but they don’t hate you, and often they forgive and keep helping you.”

Peter felt like he’d missed part of the conversation. “Um, _yes_?” That was how life worked, wasn’t it?

“You know how many people actually like me?” Gamora asked.

Peter shrugged. Probably a lot? She was a gorgeous babe, and people tended to like gorgeous babes. Plus, she was really smart and organized and came up with clever plans that mostly worked. And she was a really cool person and a great friend once she calmed down enough to not try to stab you. …okay, the stabbing bit had probably scared off at least a _few_ people.

“Two.” Gamora held up her fingers. “Thanos liked me because I was his best killer. And, for some reason, you like me. The rest of the galaxy hates me. I worked for Thanos, and then I worked for Ronan. They only see a monster, and they have no reason to see anyone else.”

Peter suddenly wished they were having this talk while sober, although he suspected Gamora wouldn’t have said this at all if the booze wasn’t getting to her. It sounded really complicated, and his fuzzy brain couldn’t figure out what the best thing to say was. “Drax likes you,” was the best he could come up with.

Gamora looked puzzled.

“He said you were his friend.”

“He also called me a green whore.”

Peter shrugged. “He’s Drax. He’s biologically incapable of not putting his foot in his mouth. But if he says you’re his friend, then he means it. And Mantis likes you.”

“Mantis spent her whole life in isolation until she found us.”

“So she got to know you before she heard your history. And she likes you. That’s a point in your favor. And Groot likes you. Rocket…sort of likes you, which is more than he likes most people. Nebula…I didn’t catch the whole story, but it seems like you two worked some things out. And when I talked to Rhonnan Dey about you, he was impressed. That’s seven, not counting Thanos, because fuck him. Seven is a good start.”

Gamora snorted.

“Hey, its better than two. People will come around. You just need to loosen up. Trust people a little. Look for the best in people, that’s what my mom always said.”

That got a strange look.

—

It was later, and the bar was nearly empty. Peter, to his embarrassment, realized tears were trickling down his face. “I just…I keep thinking that if she’d never met him, if she’d never had me, she would have had a life. If not for me…”

“That makes no sense. It wasn’t your choice.”

“But it’s because she had me…”

“It wasn’t.” Gamora cut him off. “You told me yourself, it was because…” She drew a deep breath and looked down at the table. “It was because he wouldn’t let himself love, wouldn’t let himself be diverted from his purpose. He chose to kill the only person who could have softened his heart. He could have chosen differently, and stayed away. Or come back and been a father to you. It was his fault he did not. You caused none of it.”

Peter drew a deep breath. Part of him knew that made sense, but he kept picturing his mom smiling in the hospital about the man of light from the stars. “It’s not fair, though.”

“It is not.”

“She loved him, and he killed her for it.”

Gamora squeezed his hands. “I know. I am sorry that happened. She sounded like a wonderful woman.”

Peter looked up at Gamora. “She was the best.”

—

They were outside the bar now, at a little roadside stand. Peter didn’t know what he was eating, but it was sweet and warm, and the night had turned cold. He ducked into his coat a little more, and took another bite.

“You need to be more careful,” said Gamora, in an odd tone of voice. “It is very important that you do not die.”

Peter’s first thought was to wonder if something was wrong with the dessert. He stared down at it, and gave it a careful prod with the spoon.

“Peter, I mean it. You are very bad at keeping yourself alive. You jumped into space to rescue me, and only had one air mask. You fought a Celestial and nearly didn’t make it back to the ship. You grabbed an Infinity Stone with your bare hands.”

“I was saving the galaxy!”

“But you nearly died. You should have died. And you are no longer immortal.”

Yeah, immortality. _That_ was going on the “Weird shit Peter didn’t know how to deal with” pile. He’d been immortal, without knowing about it, and found out _one day_ before he lost it. (He didn’t regret giving up immortality to save the galaxy, but he wished he’d had a chance to have fun with with it first.)

“Look, I know I take some risks, but I always make it back in one piece.”

Gamora shook her head. “You won’t always. One day, you will not be lucky. And I want that day as far off as possible. I need you to stay alive as long as you can. I want all of the time with you I can have. You need to be more careful.”

Gamora got way too complicated when she was drunk, Peter thought. She made it sound like he was doomed to die of terminal stupidity or something. But also she wanted to spend as much time with him as she could?

He hoped he could remember this when he sobered up. _Then_ he could figure out what it meant. “I’ll be careful,” he said.

Gamora smiled. “Good.”

—

It was later, and they were sitting in front of the Milano. Peter was taking deep breaths of the cold night air to steady himself, and trying not to look at the stars.

“What is it?” Gamora asked.

Peter looked down. “That’s how he got in my head,” he said. “The stars. That’s what he put there. The whole universe, stretched out before me. And his damn purpose.” He rubbed his face. “It felt so right. Like it was evil, but it didn’t feel evil. He made it feel like the best thing you could do.”

“You defeated him. You broke his control.”

“I know,” said Peter. “But sometimes…like when I’m half asleep, it pops into my head. The feeling, and the stars. It’s like it’s still there. I…I don’t want to be like him, to turn into him, to wake up one day and find out I’m part of his horrible plan. But he put that in my head.”

“I understand,” she said.

“How could you?” he asked. “You never got a magic mind-whammy. That’s like _literally_ the only bad thing that’s never happened to you.”

“Thanos.” Gamora sighed. “When I learned to kill for him, he began to be nice to me. He called me his daughter, and his favorite child. He wanted me to accept him as a father, to forget what he’d done. To be his creature entirely. And if I did that, I would not be alone. I would be…loved. I know what it’s like to feel his plan in your head, and to know how easy it would be to give in.”

Peter looked over at her. Forget what she’d said over the shots in the bar, her life was _way_ more fucked up than his.

“I could not forget. I could not become his creature. So I hardened. I can’t…loosen up, like you said. Too many years knowing that he was only using the promise of love to make me his monster. I cannot help but expect people to use me.” She turned to Peter. “You’re lucky. People see a softness in you, and they like you for it. They trust you. I had that stolen from me. And I don’t know how to get it back.”

“Hey,” said Peter, brushing back a strand of her hair. “You’re a lot nicer than you make yourself sound. You listen to me spout off crap, and you’re there for me. You talked your sister around, and both of you have been through nine kinds of Hell.” He caught her confused look. “Earth expression. It means lots and lots of bad stuff. You have friends.”

“Because of you. You persuaded them to tolerate me until we had a team.”

“And because of you. You warmed up. You listen to people now. You care. You think you lost all of the softness, but I can still see it in you. Just give it time.”

She looked at him, eyes bright. There was something in her face, and Peter decided to take a chance. He leaned in for a kiss, slowly, so as not to startle her. He hadn’t forgotten about the knife.

She let him get surprisingly close, and then pulled her face back. “No. Not tonight.”

Peter realized he was leaning forward with his lips puckered like an idiot, and then pulled back. Well, that was disappointing. On the other hand, “Not tonight” sounded a lot like “Maybe another night”, which was a good sign. And she hadn’t accused him of pelvic sorcery or pulled a knife on him, so it definitely could have gone worse.

Also, how could would “Peter Quill and the Pelvic Sorcery” be as a band name?

—

He woke up in his own bed, with a fuzzy memory of how he’d gotten there. Had Gamora helped him? Had she taken off his shoes? He looked down.

His shoes were on the floor, and his coat and weapon were put away neatly. There was a glass of water on the table by the side of the bed.

He sat up. His head hurt. He’d had worse hangovers, but not by much. Still, all put together, he felt better.

—

“Quill, you are awake!” Drax was _definitely_ too loud for the morning after a drinking binge. “I have prepared food.” He set out slices of what looked like bread with little black specks in it. “It is a speciality of space-farers from my planet.”

Peter took a bite. It tasted odd. Kind of like nuts, but not.

“We collect the stray insects that infest the ship and add them to the bread for extra protein.”

Peter nearly gagged. “Don't _tell_ me that!”

Drax looked confused. “Is the consumption of insects a taboo on your world?”

“Yes!”

“But how do you obtain adequate vitamins on long space voyages?”

“It never really came up.” Peter braced himself and took another bite of bread. Yeah, it was full of bugs, but if there was one thing he’d learned growing up with the Ravagers, it was to always eat your share of any food that wasn’t poisonous, because they weren’t going to fly around buying extra treats for some picky Terran kid.

Mantis entered. “Peter. You seem less unhappy.”

Peter glanced up and made an “Mmph” sound through a mouthful of bug-bread.

“May I touch your hand?”

Peter swallowed the bread. “Why?”

“I want to understand how consuming toxins can relieve emotional pain. Is it the physical pain from the aftereffects of the toxins? Or do they reduce inhibitions, allowing you to…”

“Stop,” said Peter. “Just stop talking about it.”

“Why?”

Drax weighed in. “Most of my shipmates do not like having their emotional states explained in any useful level of detail.”

“Why not?” Asked Mantis.

“I do not know. It is a strange aversion. But I find it is helpful to respect it, and avoid conflict.”

“Very well. I will follow this rule.” She turned back to Peter. “How do you feel?”

“Like someone’s taking a pickaxe to my skull.”

Drax gave him a sharp look, then stood and circled him. “Is that a metaphor?”

“Yeah.”

“I am developing a sense for them,” said Drax in a smug voice. “I sensed it was a metaphor when I did not see any blood coming from your head.”

“Good one, buddy,” said Peter, hoping Drax hadn’t started his lesson on sarcasm.

Drax nodded. “A real pickaxe would have left a wound.”

“Quill!” Behind Peter, Rocket scrambled onto the ship. “We need to take off now!”

“What did you do this time?” Asked Peter, already halfway to the cockpit.

“Blew up _one_ little part of _one_ bar! There wasn’t even anyone in it! Some planets have no sense of humor!”

“About blowing up buildings?” Peter ignored several requests to wait for clearance, and had hit the upper atmosphere. “ _Everyone_ hates that, you insane trash panda! Who the hell brings bombs to a bar, anyway?”

“Bartender shouldn't have called me a weird little animal,” muttered Rocket.

“So you blew up the bar?”

“Barely a third of it. It was a warning bomb.”

Gamora popped into the cockpit. “Are we leaving?”

“Emergency exit. Also, add this to the list of planets we can’t come back to because Rocket went out drinking.”

Gamora was smiling oddly.

“What?” Peter asked.

“It is nice to see everything back to normal.”


End file.
